“We don’t know exactly,” he said. “According to the coroner’s report, some type of ligature was used.”
“And that was her only injury?” I asked. “She wasn’t hurt in any other way?”
“No,” the sheriff said. “It would appear that she was taken by surprise.”
“So she was strangled, and that was all?” I persisted. “She wasn’t . . . she wasn’t interfered with?”
That was a possibility that had preyed on my mind. If my sister had been raped, I doubted the police would tell me.
I wanted to know the truth. No matter how bad it might hurt.
“Not as far as we can tell,” the sheriff said.
I scowled at him, searching his face for signs of misplaced consideration. The sheriff didn’t look considerate. Only annoyed.
“Have you interviewed everyone who was at Paramount that day?” I asked.
“We’re still in the process,” the sheriff said.
“What about Bugsy Siegel? Ms. Hopper said—”
He cut me off. “I’m not going to discuss the ongoing aspects of the investigation with you,”
“But—”
“Ms. Bloom, I have sympathy for you. I have a sister myself, and a daughter. But you are not a detective. Allow us to do our job, and don’t interfere.”
He stood up, opening the door to his office to usher me out.
It was pointless to argue. I gathered up my bag and left. I could feel eyes on my back, and I heard a few of the officers muttering to each other. One even let out a low, derisive whistle.
I stomped out to the street, hot with frustration. I had no friends in Los Angeles. No one I could even vent to, let alone ask for help.
Clara was the person I always called when I needed to talk.
I was hit with a fresh wave of missing her. Another realization of what I had lost.
I wondered how many times it would strike me. Again and again, like the ocean hitting the beach. Waves of grief, trying to wear me down like sand.
I hadn’t gotten far down the street when I realized someone was following me. I heard footsteps jogging after me, quick and light.
I turned around, seeing the officer with the rolled-up sleeves, the one who had smiled at me. He was still without his jacket, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“What do you want?” I asked him rudely.
I was disappointed with how my conversation with the sheriff had gone. I hadn’t managed to get any new information. The cops seemed arrogant and disinterested.
“It’s getting dark,” the officer said. “I thought I should get a cab for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of hailing a taxi,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied easily. “I just felt bad for you. The sheriff’s alright, but he can be a bit of a hardass.”
The officer had pale blue eyes and tanned skin. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had the kind of lean, rangy body that made me think he could probably move quickly when he wanted to. I could see the muscle and sinew running down his bare, brown forearms. He also had that highly attractive smile, which he was attempting to use on me once more.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Jack Woods,” he said.
“Well, Officer Woods—”
“It’s Patrol Sergeant Woods, actually,” he said.
“Patrol—”
“Jack’s fine, though.”
“Jack.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me, are the police actually taking this investigation seriously? Is Sheriff Biscailuz actually expending the full effort of your office to find out who killed my sister?”
“Well,” Jack said, “yeah. But the trouble is, we’re not the LAPD. Hollywood is under the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s department and we don’t have the same kind of resources. That’s why a lot of things go on here that you wouldn’t see in other parts of Los Angeles.”
“Really,” I said. I was surprised by his honesty.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a circus—if the monkeys were in charge and the tigers were roaming around free. I just finished a case, though,” Jack said. “I could ask to be put on this one.”
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
“I want to find out what happened to your sister, too. I’m a curious guy. Ninety percent of the time, when somebody knocks somebody off, it’s pretty obvious what happened. Cheating husband and the wife still has the gun in her hand. House burns down a week after somebody takes out an insurance policy. Most people aren’t that creative. This one might actually take some work.”
I didn’t appreciate his flippant attitude, but nobody else was lining up to help me.
“You think they’ll put you on the case?” I said.
“Nobody else wants it. It’s high profile enough that you’ll look bad if you don’t solve it, but no one’s pulling strings to get top brass on it.”
I stared at him, trying to figure him out. He was blunt—almost too honest, which I didn’t expect from a cop. Forward, but also relaxed, like he didn’t really care whether I accepted his offer of help or not. His pale eyes peered out intently from his tanned face, keen and fierce, like a husky.
“Alright,” I said. “So you’ll help me?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good. I want to see the autopsy report.”
He laughed. “Buy me dinner before you take advantage of me,” he said.
“I’ll buy you breakfast. I want to see it first thing tomorrow before I have to go into work.”
He thought about it, then shrugged his shoulders.
“Alright. I’ll sneak it out when I leave tonight.”
“Perfect. See you tomorrow, at seven. The Brightwater Cafe.”
“What about that cab?” Jack asked.
“I told you, I can get one myself.”
“Alright,” he said, turning back around toward the police station, strolling back the way he came. “Night, Ms. Bloom,” he called over his shoulder.
I didn’t answer, but I did find myself smiling, now that Jack wasn’t there to see.
6
The next morning I waited at the Brightwater Cafe, wondering if Sergeant Woods would come, and if he’d actually bring the autopsy report. I couldn’t get a firm read on him—if he was genuine, or simply a flake.
I came to the cafe early, too nervous about the obligations of the day to sleep in. Still, I didn’t have long to wait. At ten minutes to seven, Jack Woods strolled through the door, a folder tucked under his arm. He hadn’t shaved. There was blond scruff all over his lean face. But when he came closer I could smell shampoo and soap—plain, clean and masculine.
“Is that all you’re eating?” he asked, pointing to my coffee and untouched croissant.
I didn’t want to admit how anxious I was at the idea of taking Clara’s place on set.
“It’s plenty,” I said shortly.
Jack ordered bacon and eggs with toast, coffee, and fruit.
“Let’s see the folder,” I said.
“The notes are dense,” Jack said. “Let me know if there’s any abbreviations that don’t make sense.”